“The unfinished quilt in her lap was too small to warm her, but she scarcely noticed the chill. If she acknowledged a discomfort as trivial as the cold, she would then have to feel all the other pain. Far better to allow her fingers to grow numb in the draft from the open window. Far better for her to grow numb everywhere.She stroked the quilt, though she barely felt the soft cotton beneath her hands. She should have set it aside, as she had two years earlier when her hopes had last been shatter...ed. This time, although her morning nausea had almost certainly revealed her secret weeks before she and Fred had told the family, she had waited until nearly halfway through her time before taking up the quilt again. Within a month she had quilted nearly every feathered plume, every wreath of elm leaves, every crosshatched heart, every delicate ribbon in the quilt's pure, unbroken white surface before she lost the child she had so longed to cuddle within its soft embrace.She would set the quilt aside again, and complete it when she again had reason to do so.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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